


A Real Christmas

by Fantine_Black



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Cooking, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Cross-cultural, Cultural Differences, Deutsch | German, Domestic Fluff, Erik Has Feelings, Established Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Germany, Hannukah, Interfaith, Jewish Holidays, Jewish Identity, Judaism, M/M, Men Crying, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Traditions, X-Men: First Class References, עברית | Hebrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik thinks Charles does Christmas wrong. Which is strange, considering that Erik does not celebrate at all, and probably never has.</p><p>...Right?</p><p>Still, when Charles goes to find out what a 'real' Christmas might look like, he gets a little more trouble than he bargained for. </p><p>Also, there's cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Advent time

**Author's Note:**

> You can find a translation of the German words at the end of each chapter.

“Oh, for the love of God!”

Charles looks up from his paper with an exasperated sigh. Erik has been grumpy all week, his frequent outbursts of German curses telling Charles that something is decidedly not right with the world. And though the occasional mutterings of “ _frechheit!”_ and “ _unverschämt!”_ are nothing to worry about, when Erik starts using whole sentences it is time to step in. As on cue, Erik exclaims:

“Das kann doch nicht wahr sein…”

 _"_ What is it, lovely?"Charles calls.

“Nothing,” Erik grumbles, but doesn’t let up (“So ’n Quatsch, gibt’s doch nicht…”), which tells Charles it is time to leave his books behind and join Erik in the living room. He finds him shooting daggers at the Christmas tree.

“What’s wrong then?” he says.

“Look at it!”

“Yes?”

“It sparkles!”

Charles tries very hard not to smile. “It’s a Christmas tree, Erik. It’s supposed to sparkle.”

“No, it’s not,” Erik huffs.

Charles looks at him. “Is this about Hannukah? Because I’d be more than happy to -”

“It’s _Chanukah_ ,” Erik says, loudly pronouncing a throaty g. “And that’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re doing it wrong!” Erik says. “You’re doing everything all wrong!” He turns around and stomps out.

Charles sighs. December is not a good time for Erik. He wakes up screaming for his mother. Other times, he thrashes about, pleading with unseen tormentors. _Bitte, Herr Doktor –_ those words always tear Charles’ heart to shreds. He thanks the heavens for the times he’s been there to wake him and hold him until he settles down.

But that’s all the use he’s been. He’d hoped that some tinsel would cheer Erik up, but so far, the opposite has happened. Charles is at loss why Erik, a non-religious Jewish man, gets worked up about Christmas traditions. It might be due to his fastidiousness, but…

No.

Erik’s getting worse.

Charles can see it, every time: the way his body tenses up, his facial muscles harden. Erik’s eyes, so soft and shy, at these times turn to shrapnel. He seems to force himself to stand, to stay, and somehow to endure… whatever it is he has to.

And he does, which makes Charles so proud his heart can barely take it. He’s even happier when he sees glimpses of the boy Erik must have been, a boy who loved football and running almost as much as curling up in an armchair, taking sips of cocoa and getting lost in _Winnetou._

But that boy seems further and further away these days. It’s as if -

“Charles?”

He turns as Erik reappears, wiping his hands on his trouser legs. “Are you planning to go to the city tomorrow?”

“If you want.”

“I need to speak to a contractor. The wiring in this place alone is a health hazard.”

To look at Erik, the wiring isn’t so much a health hazard as an affront to basic decency.

“Of course.” He walks over and takes Erik’s hand. “But you know you don’t need my permission to call a cab, lovely. You’re free to come and go as you please.”

Erik frowns. “It’s a waste of money.” He walks over to the door, but then stops. “Your tea’d gone cold. I’ve got you new.”

Charles beams. “Thank you! Don’t you -?”

But Erik shakes his head and disappears.

When Charles returns to his desk, he indeed finds a new mug of Earl Grey, brewed to absolute perfection. Erik has even left him biscuits, yellow little crescents, topped with powdered sugar. He doesn’t know them, but they’re very nice, if a little dry.

He’s got the best boyfriend in the world.

Or so he thinks until a series of loud bangs echoes through the halls. Moments later all his lamps hiss, flicker, and go out, though by that time Charles is already halfway across the hallway. He finds Erik, covered in cobwebs, peering inside an open trapdoor.

“Your stepfather,” he deadpans, “was an idiot.”

Charles laughs. “I don’t think so. I think you are trying to sabotage the fairy lights.”

Erik grins sheepishly. “Yeah, there’s that.”

“Pity,” Charles says. “I guess there will be nothing in your stocking now.”

Erik snorts. “That’s another thing. Why stockings? It’s gross –”

“Come here, you silly grinch,” Charles says, and smothers Erik’s other protests in kisses.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frechheit: something rude  
> Unverschämt: shameless  
> Das kann doch nicht wahr sein: That can't be true/(here) You must be joking  
> So ein Quatsch: such nonsense  
> (Das) gibt's doch nicht: (here) You can't be serious  
> Bitte: please


	2. The candles shine

As the cab nears the campus Charles takes Erik’s arm. _“_ Good luck, then,” he says. He hesitates a moment, longing to kiss Erik’s temple, but quickly decides against it.

“Thanks,” Erik says, his jaw set. He really looks frightfully determined.

Charles really doesn’t think Erik is going to get a contractor in before Christmas, especially not at the price Erik deems acceptable. But Erik is not to be deterred. Maybe he, too, hopes that it will take his mind off things. Charles is certain he’s not the only one still ruminating on last night’s conversation.

He gets out, slings his bag of books over his shoulder and gives Erik a last wave. Then he wraps a scarf around his face to protect himself from the cold. Still, he is glad to be outside. Maybe the wind will help clear his head.

Was he wrong to challenge Erik? After all, there’s really no need for him to work. Charles suddenly owns such a stupendous amount of money that Erik couldn’t squander it if he tried. Say what you want about Sharon, she never let Marko fritter away Brian’s inheritance. 

But still, a light has gone out in Erik since Shaw died. The singular focus that possessed him when they were putting together a court case against the man is all but gone. Charles still hates Shaw for it; denying Erik even a semblance of justice by dropping dead from an aneurysm. A two minute headache is all the revenge Erik ever got.

And now life is marching on, and Erik is still drifting. Yesterday, Charles had again suggested that Erik study, law, forensics, journalism; anything to put that investigative talent to use. He even offered to ask Raven to introduce him to the NYPD.

But Erik had looked devastated.

“I’m not qualified,” he whispered.

Charles shook his head. “Erik. You speak six languages, for God’s sake!”

“I’m not qualified,” he repeated. “I've never even officially finished primary school. When we moved– I had to learn Polish, it’s nothing like German, and kids would beat you up for speaking Yiddish….”

“We’ll get you qualified!”

But Erik reached for him. “Please, Charles. I don’t… It’s hard for me.”

Something about that is tugging at Charles’ mind as he walks into the library, where so many young minds are pouring over books. It’s devastating. Half of the students here aren’t even enjoying themselves.

Or are they? Many of them are lingering near the front desk, where Magda, one of his students, is busy giving out books. But it’s not her they are paying attention to. It’s rather an enormous bowl of… biscuits? These pastries are different from the ones he's seen before.

“What’s this?” he grins as he gives Magda his volumes to stamp. “Something got you in the Christmas spirit?”

She smiles. “It’s Omi – my grandmother. She sends me these every December.”

“How lovely!” He peers over the bowl and suddenly spots a familiar shape. “I know these!” he says, holding up a yellow crescent. “What are they called?”

“Those are _Kipferl_ ,” Magda says. “These are gingerbread, cinnamon stars, _Batzen –_ I don’t know what that means, and…”

“That’s amazing,” Charles says. “And they’re all from Germany?”

“Yep,” Magda says. “German Christmas cookies. Excuse me, Dr. Xavier, the line’s getting a little long…”

But Charles stops her. “These are Christmas cookies?” he says hesitantly. “Not er - winter cookies?”

Magda looks at him quizzically. “They’re called _Plätzchen_. They’re eaten during Advent.”  

Charles feels like he’s been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. His Jewish boyfriend has gone out of his way to bring him Christmas cookies.

_You’re doing everything all wrong…_

“Magda,” he says. “I am terribly sorry, but I have to know more. Could I ask for a moment of your time later today?”

She smiles. “One second. Amy!”

As the young blonde woman takes over, they walk out of the library. Charles feels strangely excited.

“So,” he says. “Is it very different? German Christmas?”

Magda nods. “Night and day. Literally. The most important day, over there, is Christmas Eve.”

“Really?” Charles says. “Anything else? Special customs, funny traditions, that sort of thing?”

Magda laughs. “You should really talk to my grandmother.”

“Oh, could I?”

Magda looks at him, startled. “Sure…”

But then Charles shakes his head. “Sorry. No. I'd be imposing.”

“No, she’d be delighted,” Magda says. “She’s hardly been talking about anything else this month, and we’re not the most enthusiastic audience.” She looks at him, sideways. “But why is this so important to you?”

Charles blushes. “I’m spending Christmas with a – friend. He grew up in Düsseldorf, so I thought I might surprise him.” He wrinkles his forehead. “He is Jewish, though.”

Magda shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But I’ll be visiting Omi this Sunday, and I know she’d love to have you come, too.”

And so, a couple of days later, Charles finds himself waiting in front of Mrs. Lehmann’s door. He’s again quite happy to be out of Westchester, too. Not only has Erik found a contractor, they’ve spent the whole bloody week hammering away, doing God knows what for God knows what reason. Erik falls into bed exhausted, which seems to help keep the nightmares at bay, if nothing else. It’s the only reason Charles hasn’t put his foot down.

Still, he’s not entirely certain about this. He’s brought Hannukah up once more, but Erik has been adamant that he’s not celebrating. Why would Christmas be any different, biscuits notwithstanding? Maybe Charles is being presumptuous, or, even worse, hurtful.

But then the door opens, and he’s welcomed by Mrs. Lehmann, who looks positively alight with happiness. “Dr. Xavier!” she says, in charmingly accented English, “such an honour that you come visit an old woman!”

“Please,” he says with a slight bow. “The honour’s mine.” Then he hands her the basket with Poinsettias. “Thank you so much for having me.”

She blushes. “How beautiful.” Then she startles. “But come in! Magdalein, come take the doctor’s coat.”

Mrs. Lehmann quickly slips to the kitchen as Magda helps him put away his things. “She does know I’m not a medical doctor, yes?”

Magda smiles. “Yes. But this is the best she can do. It’s hard enough for her not to call everybody ‘sir’ all the time.” Then she looks at his feet. “Would you mind taking your shoes off?”

“Of course.” Then he sniffs. “What is that gorgeous smell?”

Magda shrugs. “She’s been baking all day.”

Charles looks at her. “She didn’t. Did she?”

Magda nods. “They’re best when they’re fresh.”

Before Charles can melt away into a puddle of embarrassment, Mrs. Lehmann returns to usher him into the living room. “Come, sit down. Magda, holst du uns schnell den Kaffee?” Then she looks at him. “Or do you want tea? Magda says you drink tea?”

“Coffee is…” but then Charles stops. He slowly looks around the room, an ever bigger grin on his face.

It’s undeniably Christmas, as evidenced by the fir, ribbons and baubles on display. But as opposed to the joyful, colourful exuberance Charles is used to in America, the ornaments in this room have an earthly feel. Instead of candy canes, there are biscuits; instead of smiling Santa figures, there are proud wooden nutcrackers. Plates filled with apples, nuts, oranges and cinnamon sticks give the room a homely glow. Most ornaments are made of wood; angels sitting on windowsills, a small rocking horse in a corner. Everything is lit by warm candlelight.

Charles sighs. Erik would love this.

It’s also quite to his mother’s taste, actually. There are subtle differences – no Christmas crackers or stockings, no bunting as far as he can see. Yet, she’d definitely approve. But there’s one glaring oversight –

“Where’s the tree?” Charles can’t help but blurt out.

Mrs. Lehmann cracks a smile. “It’s not Christmas yet. Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Charles sits down, but can’t help giving her a rather stunned look. Mrs. Lehmann points at a wreath with four candles. “First comes Advent. Every Sunday, we light one more candle. Then, on Holy Night, the Christkind comes to decorate the tree and bring the presents.”

“The Christkind?”

“That’s little baby Jesus,” says Magda, who comes in with the coffee. “We would lock the door to the living room so the little angel could do its work.” She looks at her grandmother. “Omi always told me that the angel’s light was so bright, we would go blind if we peered through the keyhole.”

“You were too curious,” her grandmother says sternly. “You never stayed upstairs like we told you.”

Charles can just see it, and it does make him grin. But the little baby Jesus has him worried. He clears his throat.

“My friend. He’s Jewish. Do you think this would mean something to him?”

Magda again looks a little doubtful, but Mrs. Lehmann barely shrugs. “Is he German?”

Charles nods.

“Is he very – how does one say – devout?”

Charles snorts. “Hardly.”

“Then why not? My friend Hannelore…” She suddenly becomes very still.

Magda takes her hand in hers. “Omi?”

Mrs. Lehmann buries her face in her hand and lets out a shuddering breath. Then she swallows. “Lena. Her daughter. She escaped.” She's silent again before saying: “Her name’s Astrid now.”

She busies herself with a plate of pastries. “Please take some. They are still hot.”

But Charles looks her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Mrs. Lehmann has a faraway look. “They came. Every Heiligabend, they came. Til and Hannelore. And Lenchen. They were just like us.” Then she shakes her head. “There were many Jews. Most lived like us. At Christmas, too.” She smiles. “We were all Germans.”

And that moment, she reminds him so much of Erik that it’s almost painful. It’s not only her English, though Erik sometimes uses similar turns of phrase when he’s very tired. It’s in the way they both hold themselves, in the shared history that he, Charles, has been mercifully spared by.

But there is an important difference too. Here, in this corner of the world, Mrs. Lehmann seems at peace, in a way that Erik never is. Charles wants this for him more than anything in the world.

“So what’s it like?” he says finally. “A proper Christmas Eve? What do I do?”

Mrs. Lehmann sits up straight. “Have you wrapped the presents?”

“Not all of them,” Charles says, somehow slightly ashamed.

“What will you cook?”

“Er…”

“Do you play music?”

“Not well…”

“What will you wear?”

He usually spends Christmas Eve lounging about in his favourite jumper, but that seems off. “A suit? I think…?”

Mrs. Lehmann starts to look slightly exasperated. “Should I write this down?” Charles says.

Magda stands up. “Maybe we should start from the beginning, right, Omi?”

And then there’s such a barrage of information that Charles can barely keep up. There’s music, and poems, and decorations, and recipes, and ever more cookies. (There’s a lot of questions about Erik, too, most of which he manages to dodge.) Two hours later, Charles says his goodbyes, laden with pastry boxes and recipe books, his head spinning with little factoids. Mrs. Lehmann holds his hand in hers for a long time.

“Your friend is always welcome here.”

Charles nods sadly. As far as he knows, Erik avoids other Germans where he can. Maybe that will change, one day, but Charles is not going to push it. Still, he greets Mrs. Lehmann warmly, and arranges to accompany her to a matinee of Beethoven’s eighth symphony.

Then he gets a cab, and spends most of his time trying to figure out how the hell he is going to do all this by tomorrow night. At home, he puts away the cookies and goes to find Erik, who’s in the kitchen, doing… something… with potatoes. There’s a lot of oil involved, by the smell of it. Yet he rejects sharing Erik’s meal.

“How about some mulled wine?” he says to him, remembering that that, too, was somehow Very Important. Erik’s eyes light up, but then he gets a skeptical look.

“Charles, you don’t like mulled wine.”

“I rather think I need one.”

Erik kisses his temple.

“I’ll show you how it’s done.”

 _Germans,_ Charles thinks, but instead gives him a squeeze.

“That would be lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plätzchen: Christmas cookies  
> -lein: little one  
> Holst du uns schnell den Kaffee: Will you (quickly) get the coffee for us  
> Heiligabend: Christmas Eve  
> Kind: child


	3. First one, then two, then three, then four

Erik stares at him. “What?” he says finally, in a tone of abject horror. “You mean today?”

Charles frowns. “Erik. It’s for Raven.”

Erik blinks. “Have you heard the weather report, Charles?”

“I have,” Charles snaps. “And it’s not snowing. Not for several hours, in fact.”

Erik smirks.

“Which is why all of New York will be flocking to the city, shopping for emergency supplies.” He turns away. “It’ll be a bloody pandemonium.”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Charles says. “I’m too British for this. I’ll get trampled.”

Erik looks extremely pained. “Why didn’t you think of this yesterday? You’ve been away for hours.”

“I was working,” Charles says. “A bit hard to get things done over here.”

Immediately, Erik lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. When he continues, his voice has a pleading tone. “I was worried, Charles. One spark and the whole place might have caught fire.”

Charles rushes to him. “I know,” he says. “And I’m grateful.” He kneels before the chair where Erik’s sitting, so he can take him into his arms. He presses his lips to Erik’s in a soft kiss, holding him until he feels the tension leave his muscles. Then he grins.

“Now will you please go buy my sister a present?”

Erik lets out a completely exasperated sigh. “Go call a cab.” He leaves the room as Charles is talking, and returns a few minutes later, dressed in padded clothing that is really not at all unlike battle gear. “I’ll meet  the driver at the entrance,” he says before leaving the castle.

Charles breathes a sigh of his own as the door closes. Finally.

But something draws him to the window to watch Erik go. And Erik turns back too, relief washing over his face as he meets Charles’ eye. He smiles, and waves, and looks exactly like a schoolboy.

A schoolboy...

And then Charles sees, not what is, but what could be, for him, for Erik, for this extravagant mess that is his childhood home. And he smiles, smiles so much it hurts, and even Erik’s eyes brighten. When he’s gone, Charles spends half an hour stumbling around the castle, heart full of possibilities. He’s almost on the phone with Raven when the doorbell rings.

Ah, yes. Here come the cavalry.

And it feels like it, as Emma Frost and her troops sweep through the house. “I don’t know what you expect me to do at such short notice,” she says, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “This place is massive.”

“It’s only a few rooms, Emma,” he says.

“Well, that’s just it,” she says. “I don’t like to think small – Alex, sugar, watch that china…”

And indeed, the result is at first a little underwhelming. Charles looks at the fresh new tree hung with silver and glass ornaments, and shivers.

“It’s a little frosty,” he says with a half-smile.

Emma’s eyes flash dangerously. “You wanted something understated.”

Charles clears his throat. “I want it to have a natural feel. Pine cones. And apples. Nuts. Some ribbons.”

Emma sighs. “You live in a castle, Charles, not a log cabin.”

Charles frowns. “Emma. You’re being paid too much to be snippy.”

“Whatever you say, sugar.” She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand where you’re going with this. Take your menu. Carp is a living death trap, Charles. All bones. And I don’t know where you expect me to find German carols. This isn’t Pennsylvania.”

“You have found some, haven’t you?” Charles asks.

“I’ve brought you something instrumental. Silent Night’s on it, anyway.” Then Emma gestures to one of her boys. “Sean, go ransack Charles’ grounds for me.” At his angry look, she says: “You can thank me later.”

But Emma’s good. When Sean comes back, she and Angel put together a few more stylish displays of pine cones, fir, nuts and apples; the silver baubles are replaced by deep brown, red and golden ones, flanked, again, by the occasional pine cone. The candles, too, are green, in gold coloured holders. Sean, meanwhile, sets to work on arranging Mrs. Lehmann's biscuits, putting together two mouthwatering plates. Charles places them under the tree, next to an assortment of gifts. Then he steps back.

“This could work,” he says breathlessly.

Emma purses her lips. “I feel a new theme coming up. How does ‘Alpine Retreat’ sound to you?”

Charles smiles. “Like a gold mine waiting to happen.”

“I thought so.” She turns back. “How’s that dinner table coming, Alex?”

Charles follows her, and finds a table laid for two, the pinnacle of Emma’s sophisticated, glittering elegance.

Charles blinks, but Emma merely shrugs. “Look at the centerpiece.”

Charles sees an advent wreath, four slim purple candles adorned with simple ribbons. A white candle stands in the middle. On impulse, he pulls Emma close.

“Thank you.”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” she laughs. Then she holds his gaze. “How’s Sharon doing?”

Charles swallows. “We can’t visit her yet. Maybe New Year’s.”

Emma frowns. “Well, I don’t blame her. God knows I need more than a few Martinis most days.” She turns around. “I think we’re done here.” As the others start to leave, she kisses Charles’ cheek. “I’m looking forward to cashing _this_ check.”  

Charles smiles again. “The food’s in the kitchen?”

“The coffee and cake are in the library.”

Charles waits, but she doesn’t go on. Finally he says: “And what about the carp?”

Emma’s mouth twists. “You’re alone there, sugar. I don’t do carp.”

“Why not?” Charles says desperately.

“Because I’m not suicidal.” Then she stops, rummages in her purse and holds out a little silver bell. “Oh! Lest I forget.”

“What’s this?” Charles says.

Emma rolls her eyes. “ ‘Essential’, he said,” she says, mocking his accent. “ ‘Absolutely indispensable.’”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, pocketing the little bell. Then he touches her arm. “Please Emma. I can’t cook.”

She smiles sweetly. “Not my problem, sugar. Merry Christmas!”

He watches her leave in mild horror, then rushes to the kitchen. Although the vegetables have been washed and neatly laid out, the actual cooking is indeed still up to him. He curses under his breath. The one thing he’s taught himself to cook well is a full English breakfast, and he’s the only one who enjoys eating it.

He’s buried in one of Magda’s recipe books when he hears Erik come back. There’s some furious stamping of boots, until he comes in, some snowflakes still clinging to his hair.

“I expect eternal gratitude,” he barks, slamming the Bob Dylan album on the table.

“Hmm?” says Charles, trying to decipher Magda’s handwriting.

“Eternal gratitude, Charles Xavier. This wasn’t pandemonium. This was a suicide mission.” He sniffs. “They wouldn’t even gift-wrap it.” Then he looks at the vegetables. “You’re cooking?”

“Ah, yes,” Charles says, feeling caught out.

“What happened to ‘a slow night’? ‘Easing our way into Christmas’?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Charles says. “Why don’t you go to the library? I’ll bring the coffee.”

Erik looks at him. “You mean tea.”

“No,” Charles says. “I need some caffeine.”

The faintest of smiles plays around Erik’s lips. “Good choice.”

As he arrives in the library, he sees Erik looking approvingly at the table. “My, my Charles. You went all out.” He leans back on the couch, but then sits up straight. “Is that _Mohnkuchen_?”

Charles nods. “You keep staring at that poppy seed cake every time we pass that bakery, Erik. It’s high time you went in and bought some yourself.”

Erik sighs. “Alright. What’s going on?”

Charles pours the coffee, carefully avoiding looking at Erik. “There was a bit of an er… avalanche in the living room today.”

“An avalanche?”

“Plaster,” Charles says. “Kept coming down. Dust everywhere. It’s a terrible mess.”

Erik’s eyes widen. “But Charles, I haven’t touched…”

“It’s not your fault,” he says quickly. “Old building, you know. And Mum didn’t do much, upkeep wise.” He starts to enjoy this. “Anyway, I’ve had people in, but they wanted to be back before the snow, so they’re sending someone tomorrow. The important thing is – we really can’t go in there tonight.”

“That’s nonsense!” Erik bristles. “I’ll go fix it right now!”

Charles holds him back. “Erik. This has been a really intense day.” (And that’s God’s honest truth.) “I don’t know if we’ll be able to have much of a Christmas tomorrow, so I thought we might celebrate tonight. Have a nice dinner, at least.”

He watches Erik’s face intently. He’s very still, but finally a hesitant smile breaks through. “Yes…fine… If you want…” Erik leans back, takes a sip of coffee, then a bite of cake. “This is good –” Suddenly, he puts his fork down and jumps up. “Charles, just let me look at it…”

“No Erik. Not tonight.” Charles smiles. “Eat your cake.”

Erik pushes his plate away. “I’m not hungry.” When he meets Charles’ eye, he looks at the cake guiltily. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Charles touches his hand. “Are you OK? You look a bit peaky.”  

“Actually,” Erik says, “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.” He kisses his cheek. “Thank you for the coffee. That almost made it up to me.”

Charles touches his face. “Dinner’s at eight.”

“Yeah,” Erik says absentmindedly.

Charles watches him go and then finishes Erik’s slice of cake. He takes the dishes back to the kitchen, mentally preparing himself to do battle with dinner.

Yet there’s little to do for now, even if he has to use lard for the first time in his life later this evening. They’ll start, though, with Emma’s consommé, which he only needs to heat up. Satisfied, he goes to check on Erik, who has indeed fallen into an uneasy sleep.

Charles looks at him for a moment. He’d planned to serve some pre-dinner drinks, but decides to forget about that for now. Instead, he runs a bath, followed by an extra-close shave. Then he dresses, fixes his bow tie, and spends some time polishing his shoes.

At seven thirty, he goes to wake Erik.

Erik’s eyes widen as he sees him. “Wow, Charles. It really is Christmas.”

Charles smiles. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

Erik reaches for him. “Must we?” he says softly. “I feel like unwrapping you right now.”

“Erik,” Charles says, but not before savouring the kiss for a few moments. “We’ve talked about this. Stop skipping to dessert.”

Erik laughs sheepishly. “Yes, Professor.”

Charles shakes his head. “You’re doing it again. Not until I finish my thesis.”

“Which you will. With the highest honours.”

Charles grins at him. “Go dress.”

But when he goes downstairs he feels increasingly nervous. He goes to the kitchen, puts on the consommé and fiddles with the little ciabattas in the bread basket, before finally taking both bread and wine to the dining room. He startles to find Erik already there, looking delectable in his evening attire, and frowning at the Advent wreath.

“Charles, are you Catholic?”

“No, why?”

Erik stutters. “I thought only Catholics had those.”

He’s lying, Charles can see it. He puts down the wine and bread and gives him a squeeze. “Why don’t you light the candles?”

“OK,” he says hesitantly. As Charles pours the wine, he squints, then points at the white candle. “There! Definitely Catholic!”

He strikes a match and lights the candles in quick succession. As he finishes, he looks at them for a moment.

“Beautiful.”

“Sit down, I’ll get the soup.”

But even when he returns, Erik is extremely quiet. He hardly says anything while they eat, completely lost in his own world. Only when Charles stands up to clear away the dishes, he grabs his hand.

“Thank you, love. This is really nice.” He looks around. “It must have been so much work.”

“I’m not done yet,” Charles says. “Still got some fish to fry.”

He goes, and hears Erik put on Tchaikovsky’s “Winter Dream”.

After that, there’s fish. And… lard. And… and he somehow manages to burn the potatoes.

When he returns to the dining room, Erik blinks. “That’s… that’s very… Charles, why didn’t you want me to cook again?”

“It mightn’t be so bad,” Charles says, blushing. “Just pour the wine.”

Erik, not one to turn his nose up at any food, tucks in bravely. He chews, pulls a face, but swallows it down nonetheless. Then he looks at him. “Charles… is this carp?”

“Yes,” Charles says cheerily. “Or… well, it would be.”

Erik looks lost. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The recipe looked interesting,” Charles says, a little annoyed.

“Oh, it is,” Erik says. “Yes. Very interesting.” Then he points with his fork. “Watch those bones, Charles. No joke.”

They eat in silence. After two minutes, Erik puts his fork down and asks for more potatoes. When he sees them, though, he settles for another glass of wine. “I could make us a salad.”

“No,” Charles says. “Erik, there’s something I have to talk to you about. I – you – I want us to start a school together.” And he tells him about his epiphany, about kids roaming the hallways, about laboratories, and sports grounds, and the very latest equipment, and…

But Erik stops him. Again avoiding his gaze, he says: “Charles… what does this have to do with me?”

Charles smiles. “Everything.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want just any kids. I want kids like you.” At Erik’s questioning look, he says: “There are so many children displaced and abused. Young adults, too, who never got to have an education.” He squeezes Erik’s hand over the table. “I want to give them a chance.”

Erik pulls his hand back. “This is a disastrous idea. You can’t just put a bunch of these kids together and expect – ”

“That’s why I need you,” Charles interjects. “I know those kids will have the likes of me for breakfast, even with services. But they will respect you.”

Erik snorts. “And what will I teach them, Charles? Anything I’ve learned they’ll know too, or else they wouldn’t be alive.”

“Not them, me,” Charles says. He cuts off a big chunk of fish and puts it in his mouth. Then he splutters. “For God’s sake,” he says, picking out an especially large fishbone from between his teeth. “Is this a meal or an obstacle course?”

Erik laughs. “The world is a dangerous and terrifying place. No need to forget that just because it’s Christmas.”

Charles puts his plate away. “Will you make dessert? I think I’ve exhausted my culinary abilities today.”

Erik grins. “Thank God.” Charles helps him load up a tray with dishes. Once Erik has left, though, he blows out the candles and sprints to the living room. Dessert won’t take too long – Emma has left him a chocolate mousse – but he hopes the disastrous main course means that Erik will want to get a little creative. He could do with the time.

He surveys the living room and feels rather uncertain. There was something wrong with the Advent wreath – Magda’s told him nothing about Catholic or non-Catholic versions. Maybe everything he’s done here is wrong too.

But then he lets himself relax. The smell of the new Christmas tree is fantastic, the ornaments look cozy, and he can’t imagine anyone who does not love looking at a pile of gifts. The little bell’s near the gramophone, the plates with cookies are under the tree. He’s even got the poem written down. The only thing left for him to do is light the candles. Smiling happily, he goes to the table to get the safety matches. He then climbs the small ladder he’d placed next to the tree in preparation.

“Charles?” he hears Erik call from the dining room. He doesn’t answer, instead focusing on the little lights. First one, then two, then three, then four…

“Charles, I _know_ you’re up to something,” says Erik. “You’ve been acting strangely all day…”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, quickly taking the ladder and putting it in a corner. As he hears Erik approach, he runs over for the little bell. He lifts it and lets its soft, clear sound fill the hallway.

Then he grins.

Showtime.


	4. Then it is Christmas Eve once more

First, there’s nothing. Then Erik sprints to the door and yanks it open. He does nothing but stare, his breathing short and ragged.

Charles turns on the gramophone, and the first notes drift into the room. Charles can almost hear the words:

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm…_

But Erik lets out a cry of raw, deep anguish.

“Stop…”

Charles turns the sound down in one quick swoop and rushes over to him. “Erik?”

Erik is bent forward, his hands clenched into fists. He bites his lip, hard, before saying:

“Please… anything but that…”

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers, “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry…”

Erik shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says, hugging his elbows to his side, “I’d try to forget… but that song is everywhere…”

Charles embraces him, pressing Erik’s shivering body to his own. “It’s OK,” he whispers to Erik, “I’m here, it’s OK,” but he can’t help thinking _y_ _ou’re an idiot, Charles Xavier, you’re a cruel, senseless idiot…_

Then Erik whispers: “Can you play something else?”

Charles looks up, startled, and sees that Erik has turned his head toward the Christmas tree. He untangles himself, walks to the gramophone, and with a shaking hand, selects the next song.

_O holy night…_

Erik breathes out. “That one's French, isn’t it?”

Charles nods, though he has always preferred the English lyrics. He slowly walks back to Erik as the music builds to his favourite strophe:

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoicing;_

_For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…_

Erik inches forwards, his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree. Then he begins to weep, silently, heart wrenchingly. Charles slings his arms around Erik's midriff as Erik buries his face in Charles' hair. He sobs, tired, heartbroken and defeated, clinging to Charles for dear life. But he keeps looking at the candles, and ultimately lets go and stands in silence, a quivering smile on his face. Charles stands next to him and holds his hand, unable to completely control his tears himself.

When the song ends, he nudges Erik.

“There’s something under the tree for you,” he says, pointing at the two plates.

“Plätzchen!” Erik cries, giddy as a schoolboy. He looks at the plates, lingers for a moment, but then takes four at the same time, two from each platter. He looks up at Charles, the tear stains still on his face.

“How did you know all this?” 

“Lucky guess,” Charles says simply. Erik keeps looking at him, lips moving quietly, apparently at utter loss for words. Charles grins.

“I have, however, been reliably informed that good German boys have to work for their presents,” he says, walking back to turn the sound of _God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_ a little lower.  

Erik looks worried. Charles’ grin widens. “A song seems to be an acceptable form of payment.”

Erik squirms. “Come off it, Charles…”

“A poem will do, too,” Charles says, taking a piece of paper out of his inside pocket. “This seems to be a popular choice.”  He opens the paper clears his throat.

“‘Von drauss’ vom Walde komm ich her…’” 

“Stop it!” Erik says, covering his ears. “Your accent’s terrible!” But he smiles. “I’ll sing for you,” he says, “if you get the menorah.”  

Charles shakes his head. “The menorah?” 

“I know you bought one, Charles,” says Erik matter-of-factly. “And it is still Chanukah.”

Charles smiles. He then quickly walks back to the dining room and opens a cupboard. In there, wrapped in white linen, he finds the eight-armed silver candelabra. He takes it, together with a packet of candles. Back in the living room, he places them, almost reverently, in Erik’s hands.

“Happy Hannukah, Erik.”

Erik swallows. “Chanukah sameach, Charles.”

Erik then puts the menorah on the table, next to a plate of biscuits, and puts in four candles. He strikes a match, first lights the middle candle and then three more. Suddenly he giggles. “Erst eins, dann zwei, dann drei, dann vier…”

“What’s that, lovely?”

“An Advent rhyme,” he said. “Not really appropriate…”

He turns back to the menorah, then shakes his head. “I’m not doing this right,” he says apologetically. “I’m too late, and I can’t say the prayers...”  

“It’s beautiful, Erik,” Charles says.

“OK.” Erik nods to himself, shoots a look at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Then he sings, in a slightly shaky baritone:

“Maoz tzur y’shuati, l’cha naeh l’shabeach…”   

He stops. “I’m sorry.” He turns around and sinks back on the couch. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” Charles reaches over to take away the menorah, but Erik says: “No! I’d like to look at it. Mama always liked to look at it.” Then he buries his face in his hands. 

Charles walks over to him. “I’m so sorry, lovely. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have –” 

“No, don't be," Erik says, again smiling through his tears. “This looks like home. It even smells like home.”  

Charles squeezes his hands. “I thought you didn’t celebrate,” he says. “Since your family were Jewish…”

“My father wasn’t Jewish,” Erik says.

“But the records said…” 

“My father wasn’t Jewish,” Erik says, more vehemently this time. “The Nazis made him Jewish.”  

“What?” 

“His grandparents were Jewish," Erik says. “According to their laws, anyway. And he was married to my mother.” 

They both sit in silence. Charles is still trying to wrap his head around the absurdity of it all when Erik nods at the menorah. “You should put that in the window.” 

As Charles does so, Erik walks over to the gramophone. Moments later, the soft tones of _O Come All Ye Faithful_ fill the room. Erik sits back down and smiles at the Christmas tree before taking another biscuit. 

“I loved it when Chanukah and Heiligabend overlapped,” he says. “We could play with the dreidl before we opened our presents, and we had latkes instead of fish.” 

“Hey!” Charles says. “I spent hours on that carp!” 

Erik grinned at him. “I used to beg Mama to make us potato salad with sausages on Christmas Eve, but she said she had to draw the line somewhere.”

"So much for that," Charles grumbles.

“The presents made up for it, though,” Erik says. He winks at Charles. “I see you have presents…” 

“Indeed!” Charles walks to the tree and selects one shiny parcel. “There you are.” 

Erik prods the gift suspiciously. “This isn’t one of your jumpers, is it?” 

“Much, much better,” Charles says. An enormous smile spreads on his face as Erik opens the gift and holds it at an arm’s length.

“Antlers,” he deadpans.

“Yes!” Charles says.

“Charles, I’m not wearing felt antlers with a tuxedo…” 

“I’ve got you matching pyjamas!”

Erik opens his mouth, but he continues: "Erik, sweetheart, I think this German Christmas stuff is really pretty, but I feel like I am waiting for an audience with the Queen.” He sits down next to him. “Tomorrow I want presents, and mince pies, and crackers, and woolly jumpers and yes, antlers. And I won’t begrudge Raven her popcorn, either.” Erik looks a little dejected, but Charles ignores him. “And lastly – we are having turkey again this year, lovely. I don’t care what everybody says, I am not going to New York in search of geese.”

Erik shrugs. “Your loss.” Then he looks back at the Christmas tree. “Charles…”

He puts his hand on Charles’ face, then pulls him close. They sit cheek to cheek for a while until Erik turns his head and kisses the corner of his mouth, softly, softly, every kiss a little thank you, until he finally kisses Charles’ lips, his hands cradling Charles’ head. All this time, he’s still trembling.

Charles pulls back. “Erik…”             

But Erik shakes his head, puts his right hand on Charles’ lips, and lets his left hand trail downwards. There is none of the usual possessiveness about him, though. His touch is gentle, oh so very gentle, as he finally rests his hands on Charles’ hips and kneels down.

This is new. As a lover, Erik is by no means inconsiderate, but he is driven by need. For pleasure, yes, for love, but also for release. It’s the sexiest thing in the world, and Charles has never even dreamt of wanting anything else. But now, as Erik shakily unbuttons his trousers, then slides both hands upward, softly rubbing Charles’ back, he is filled by wonder. To truly luxuriate in Erik’s touch is something he thought he’d never experience. And Erik goes on, stroking his thighs, softly squeezing his balls. Then he takes Charles' cock and runs both hands from the base to the tip, gently circling the slit with his thumb.

“Stop… teasing…” Charles gasps, and at last, Erik takes Charles’ cock in his mouth and sucks him, his lips lingering on his skin in a soft caress, his tongue always brushing Charles’ tip as he’s moving, hot and wet, back and forth.

Charles is overcome. More strongly than his lust he can feel Erik, how much he cares, how much he wants to give. But he also feels a rawness in him, feels how deeply he’s been shaken. He rests his hands on Erik’s head. “Lovely…”

Erik flinches and pulls back. “ _Verdammt nochmal!_ ” He looks up at Charles, his jaw set, his eyes still brimming with tears. “You have to let me,” he says. “Please, Charles. Just let me.”

Charles nods and Erik continues, sucking harder this time, his hand moving up and down the base of Charles' cock. And by God, it is glorious, Erik bathed in candlelight, licking, sucking and stroking as the music swells, _Gloria, gloria in excelsis,_ and as Erik’s teeth graze him he throws his head back and thrusts, once, twice, before he comes.

Charles feels himself turn soft in Eriks mouth, but just as quickly, the warmth and wetness disappear. Before he realises what is going on, Erik has grabbed a little candle extinguisher from the table and is standing at the tree, putting out the candles. “This causes fires too, you know,” he shrugs.

Charles laughs loudly, but as he watches Erik’s movements, a frown reappears on his forehead. He arranges his clothes and walks over.

“Erik?”

Erik turns. “I’m fine, Charles.” He looks at the tree, then at the menorah. “I’d just like to be alone for a while.”

“Of course.” He smiles. “I’m off then. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Erik raises his eyebrows. “Drinking eggnog in woolly jumpers.”

“And meeting Raven’s new boyfriend.” He smiles again. “Try not to cross examine Hank over lunch.”

“OK.” He leans over and kisses Charles hair. “Good night, my love.”

Charles kisses his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Erik.”

In their bedroom, Charles undresses slowly. He can still faintly hear the Christmas music coming from the living room. More faintly still, he thinks he can hear Erik sobbing; although he hopes his imagination is running away with him on that account. He lays Erik’s new pyjama’s out with exaggerated care before slipping under the covers of their bed.

Not soon after, Charles hears Erik tiptoeing inside. He keeps his eyes closed, but as Erik gets in beside him, he rolls over for a kiss. “Happy Christmas, Erik,” he says again.

Erik strokes his hair. "Frohe Weihnachten, mein Schatz."

It’s the first tender German he’s ever used.

That night, they both sleep like babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Von drauss', vom Walde komm ich her: From out the forest I now appear (Poem by Theodor Storm)  
> Erst eins, dann zwei, dann drei, dann vier: First one, then two, then three, then four  
> Verdammt nochmal: Damn it  
> Frohe Weihnachten: Merry Christmas  
> Mein Schatz: my treasure/my darling


End file.
